Twenty One
by Rackham Rose
Summary: Falling in love is easy; being in love is not. [complete! yay!]
1. Twenty One Things

**Author's Notes:**  
  
This series on the whole is pretty much the result of about half a dozen challenges, several crackheaded late nights, and prolonged exposure to Shoiryu's Tatsumi. It's also partially just me trying to communicate a bunch of different types of weirdness about my interpretations of the pairing.  
  
With music. Lots of music.  
  
(I am aware that Tatsumi and Tsuzuki's partnership was most likely before Watari's time in the office, but the idea seemed like a good one when I started this fic and arose from a misunderstanding of the translations I had at hand. Apologies if any purists get mad. ;)  
-,--  
_"I'm in no hurry; I could wait forever..."  
--Alanis Morisette, "Twenty-One Things (I Want In A Lover)"_   
  
Summer was, honestly, disorienting after death. In the world of the living, seasons moved in cycles, so a heat wave rarely came as a real shock; in an afterlife of almost perpetual spring, an eighty-degree morning was like a tsunami on dry land. Sakura blossoms drooped on branches. Grass and angels of death wilted beneath the outpouring of so much clear hot sunlight.   
  
It felt almost decadent, to lounge around the lab with his sleeves rolled up.   
  
The morning's experiment had been mostly done by ten o'clock, and if his notes were right he wouldn't have a definitive result until at least one; 003 had been fed, and for once he was confident he'd left his paperwork in the right in-box. Nearly everyone, it seemed, was on field duty, leaving the office eerily quiet. Even Tsuzuki, who'd held off on taking any down-time in the two weeks since Tatsumi had dissolved their partnership, had decided it was too hot to stick around the office.   
  
He'd found silence unsettling before death; after death it was downright disturbing.   
  
Wind stirred in a faint hot puff outside the window, like a fevered huff of breath. A whisper, inarticulate and wordless, threaded through his hair. He looked up: a shower of bruised petals had fallen across the sill, lovely, ruined.   
  
Out of curiosity, he reached over and brushed at them with his fingertips. He'd expected them to feel like skin, and didn't know why; instead they felt like paper that hadn't quite burned down, scraps that had escaped becoming ash.   
  
Something bright moved across his line of vision. Out of some bizarre, catlike instinct, he reached up and snatched at it; something soft and not quite solid brushed against the curl of his fingertips before he could close his fist.   
  
"Watari-san?"   
  
He glanced up, and it took a moment for his mind to shift back to a different type of function--_there's another person here; leave the handful of images for later._   
  
For some reason, he found himself smiling.   
  
"Hey, Tatsumi-san! What can I do for you?"   
  
"Your paperwork, for one." His tone was stiff, dry as kindling.   
  
Watari stuck out his tongue. "It's in your in-box this time, so there."   
  
With an exasperated little huff, Tatsumi turned and disappeared down the corridor. He could almost imagine the man muttering darkly to himself, a variation on his usual diatribe about _idiots_ and _damn immaturity_ and _not paid enough to put up with this._   
  
The thing in his hand stirred, and he glanced down.   
  
With the suddenness of heat lightning, his smile sparked into a grin, and he bolted down the hall. Tatsumi was standing over his in-box, sorting through the mess of papers there; he glanced up with startled eyes as Watari crossed the threshold unannounced.   
  
Watari opened his hand.   
  
The butterfly righted itself within half a heartbeat and went winging crazily towards Tatsumi's window, its small body brilliant red against the white walls and then black against the nearly glowing sky.   
  
Tatsumi stared at it, mute, and made no move to either help it or catch it himself. Only when it found the sill and perched, wings trembling against another breath of humid air, did he glance over at Watari.   
  
It was then that Watari realised where he was, and what he'd done, and why this might be a bad idea. The secretary's office was private if not sacred ground; there were horror stories about hapless _shinigami_ who had interrupted his lunch hour without warning and had found themselves plagued by terrible shadowy nightmares.   
  
That was also when Watari realised what had made him smile, a thought finally coalescing into words. _Oh, the sky today... his eyes are like that. That solid blue--it's almost the same, isn't it? Funny thing._   
  
Tatsumi raised an eyebrow, slow, not quite disapproving.   
  
He backed out of the room, and made up his mind to go home at two o'clock.


	2. Beautiful Stranger

_"You could be good for me;  
I have a taste for danger."  
--Madonna, "Beautiful Stranger"_   
  
It wasn't that he was colourblind; he simply tended to notice black and white and charcoal shades in far more detail than "real" colours. The striking thing about snow was that it was white, and the true dazzle in lightning lay in the way it stood out against a pitch night sky.   
  
He saw extremes and wondered at the degrees of nuance between them. He studied shadows of every kind.   
  
Noise--thunder, crowds, the roar of a spell's backlash--was like the sun to him, neither yellow nor gold but blinding white and unwelcome. Silence was like pitch blackness, familiar but deeply unsettling, reaching with inky fingers to stir the bases of old and private fears.   
  
Voices were grey, and music, and especially office talk.   
  
Rumours tended to feel pale to him, particularly in the months after he had decided to end his partnership with Tsuzuki; then again, everything felt pale, as though someone had turned on a switch somewhere and flooded the world with too much watery winter light. He'd had a dream a month or two ago that had taken place in the back seat of a car: someone had handed him a pad of paper and a pencil and told him to draw, then started the car and began to drive, leaving him to struggle with the effort of making a coherent image with only the brief flashes of passing streetlights to help him.   
  
Tsuzuki, he thought, was disturbingly like that drawing, only understood in fits and starts.   
  
He was well aware that talk made them all out to be more than what they were. Some of the stories featured him as a hard-hearted bastard who dumped his partner out of sheer exasperation; he had long since given up on trying to make anyone believe he was a good man, and he absorbed the gossip without really listening to it.   
  
Some of what he heard, though, made him think.   
  
For example, there was a rumour going around that, when Watari had first been appointed Chief at the sixth block, someone had been teasing him and had dared him to cut his hair--and that he'd done it, right there, just picked up a scalpel and held up the end of his ponytail and sawed right through it. It made for an odd mental image: he could picture Watari frowning ever so slightly in concentration, nose wrinkling just a bit, and then shaking his head as gold hair spilled raggedly around his chin; he could even imagine the broad smirk that would have had to come afterwards, the cocky young Chief tossing his braid at some white-faced field agent.   
  
The odd thing was that when he pictured the scenario, there was a faint glimmer of yellow in his mind, highlights against a washed-out image.   
  
Other, occasional things stood out the same way in his imagination: Tsuzuki's eyes, dark-violet rather than simply dark; seashell oranges from a rare happy evening during his last year of life; vague green firefly dots from his childhood.   
  
More recently, he could recall the red of insect wings.   
  
He was pale, as blurred as the edges of his own shadow on a rainy December day. The things he remembered were not.


	3. Waiting Room

_"I guess I have to wait a while.  
I'm going to play this game--  
Call me up when you know how to dial."  
--No Doubt, "Waiting Room"_  
  
Half an hour he'd been waiting, and still there was no sign of the secretary or the tax forms he'd promised to deliver. The corridor was filled with the quiet, echoing hush of rain--the morning and afternoon had been unrelentingly grey, winter putting in a rare appearance in the afterlife. Rain always made him feel jittery, overstimulated: he liked background noise, but the constant dripping whisper tended to get on his nerves, and the way clouds muted light into a thin monotone glow was downright depressing. He liked brilliance, clear definitions and bright colours. Rain was only grey and silver.   
  
A clock ticked somewhere, pointing out the existence of time so quietly as to sound almost polite.   
  
He liked brilliance, and that love wormed its way into every aspect of his life. It was easy, with science, to create things that were in some way vivid--he'd painted glass, set off fireworks, taken apart the guts of machines and seen their wires and cogs gleaming like the insides of flowers. But it was also increasingly easy to find vivid things away from the lab: in the break room, and the meeting room, and on the front steps.   
  
Tatsumi was rain when he was speaking about cases; he was dull and washed-out when he had nothing of his own to say. But when he was irritated, angry, exasperated, he was the blue of flame and the flare of an electrical fire. When he was speaking in that clipped, utterly polite accent, using words as sparingly as if they were coins, his emotions showed through in sparks and flashes of colour--paint spatters on a charcoal outline.   
  
Watari liked that, and knew that every time he baited Tatsumi with a pointed comment or a potion slipped into the coffee pot at "inappropriate" times he was playing with matches dangerously close to a pool of kerosene. Fire, though, had never frightened him; explosions made his heart pound. Getting a disaster under control was a powerful rush in and of itself--a challenge that was as intense as it was finite. Attempting to untangle a puzzle was every bit as exciting as eventually stumbling on its solution: Tatsumi was an especially frustrating puzzle, one whose secrets would only yield themselves under pressure.   
  
There was one type of pressure he hadn't tried yet, though.   
  
He'd had enough of waiting for those tax forms, anyway.   
  
With a sharp, decisive nod, he pushed away from the wall and opened the door of Tatsumi's office, leaning inside in a flurry of motion.   
  
"Yo--"   
  
Tatsumi was asleep.   
  
From the looks of it, he'd put his head down on his crossed wrists for a moment's quiet thought and had simply nodded off where he sat. Pieces of the puzzle slid into place: tax season, dark circles under Tatsumi's eyes when they'd met in the break room earlier, swift-approaching deadlines.   
  
_Oh._   
  
He stirred slightly, not waking; dark hair spilled down over one of his temples and curved against his cheek, like the shadow of a lover's hand. His glasses gleamed on the desk just past the range of his fingers.   
  
There was a strange sadness to his expression, something not quite blank but not quite worried or stern.   
  
Watari watched him for a very long moment, ignoring the rain. Then he closed the door and leaned back against it, and let out a breath.   
  
His pulse roared in his ears, in his throat and along his palms.   
  
He felt almost blinded.


	4. Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

_"If you can't make your mind up,  
We'll never get started."  
--Doris Day, "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps"_   
  
On some days the office was a dance floor.   
  
Exchanges were all swift turns and possibly-angry looks, heavy with possible subtext, executed in sharp bursts. They circled, they dodged, they watched one another in glances that lingered a split second too long.   
  
He'd never been good at dancing.   
  
Watari wasn't sure when his interest had begun to run deeper than passing curiosity, and he knew he couldn't pinpoint the moment when he'd realised that, fits of temper and moody silences aside, Tatsumi was extremely attractive. His thoughts simply accumulated in silence, not so much a snowball speeding downhill as a slow creeping of heat from match to charcoal. He needed kindling. He needed something solid. He knew he'd been craving it since far before the dance had really begun, or at least before it had become something that itched and nagged at him.   
  
He knew it had been there, self-contained and slow-burning with impatience, for a long time; it had stayed when months melted into a year and when a year slid into two, three, five.   
  
This month had been a long one. There was talk of Tsuzuki getting a new partner, which tended to put everyone on edge. There had been problems in the sixth block, which was not only rare but frustrating given that it was usually well-maintained to the point of being boring. And some days he could swear that Tatsumi was _teasing_ him, had seen right through his jokes and his baiting and half-insults and knew exactly how he felt.   
  
Today, though, he wasn't sure at all.   
  
"I am not touching that," Tatsumi said, voice dark with sarcasm, "unless it contains anything other than coffee, and if I find out that it does--"   
  
Watari pushed the coffee mug at him, and pulled a face. "Fine, then, no sugar."   
  
"Don't be difficult, Watari-san."   
  
"Or...?"   
  
Silence fell, leaden, between them. It was an implicit dare, a skeleton key for a corridor full of doors. The possible answers that could be woven around that _or_ were innumerable, and his breath caught, just a little, at the knowledge that now as ever he had no way of anticipating what the result would be.   
  
Tatsumi's eyes narrowed, very slightly.   
  
_"Or else."_   
  
A headache began to spark and roll up into real pain somewhere behind his left temple, and he pushed away from the table to get his own cup of coffee.   
  
Maybe next time he'd know.   
  
Maybe never.


	5. Only Happy When It Rains

**Author's Note:** Beware of low-flying X references and massive, horrible messing with timelines--I don't recall if a year was ever mentioned in the manga for _anything_ other than births/deaths, but since Hisoka died in '96 and they'd been partners for at least one year (possibly two) in volume 7 or so, I'm desperately hoping this has at least a shred of canon compatibility going for it.  
Also, yes, I know a new century is supposed to start in the "01" year; it bugged me all through 1999-2000. ;  
  
-,--  
_"You'll get the message by the time I'm through,  
When I complain about me and you."  
--Garbage, "Only Happy When It Rains"_   
  
Ten-thirty on December thirty-first, 1999, and the Bureau was holding its breath.   
  
The Apocalypse, they all knew well, was not about to strike and incinerate the living world as soon as 2000 blossomed into being; the register of the dead was a silent but infallible witness to the fact that humanity would outlast the turning of a new century. The living, however, were nowhere near as well-informed. All year the _shinigami_ had been handling cases of humans believing themselves messiahs and gods, of people waking demons and touching forbidden knowledge.   
  
And then there had been Kyoto, full of secrets and burning nightmares and deep misery, and everyone had come away somehow changed. There was little way of telling whether that change had been for better or worse.   
  
It had been nerve-wracking from start to finish.   
  
And it was almost over.   
  
Tatsumi eyed the bottle of champagne that sat, green and sweating, on the desk between them; it seemed out of place.   
  
"You put that on the expense report, didn't you?"   
  
He meant it as a joke, and it got a laugh. Watari shook his head, loose hair a flurry of gold highlights, overhead lights winking off of his glasses.   
  
"I'm wasting my own money this time, Tatsumi-san. After all, it's my first brand-new century!"   
  
"Mine, too."   
  
That was strange when he thought about it: he'd been working steadily for sixty years after death, and yet when he stopped to take a deep breath and get his bearings, he was still twenty-nine, still tall and steady-handed. Time worked around him, or he around it, and yet this was the first event of its kind he'd witnessed--something even Tsuzuki hadn't seen.   
  
"You want to open it?" Watari asked quietly.   
  
"What, now?"   
  
"Might as well." He shrugged, a loose roll of shoulders. "Hey, if something goes wrong and it all blows up, at least we can say we didn't wait around to enjoy ourselves."   
  
That made him smile, for no reason he could clearly identify, and he reached forward to take the bottle and begin undoing the wire hood. It bit into his fingers--he supposed this must be what guitarists felt when they came back to the instrument after an absence. "I hope you have a glass."   
  
Watari offered a sheepish smile. "I have coffee mugs."   
  
"Close enough. If you could stand back..."   
  
Obediently, he moved just enough to be out of range; Tatsumi popped the cork and it went skidding across the room with surprising force. _Bang,_ and it was gone, like the minute before midnight.   
  
He must have startled; it was the only way to explain why Watari suddenly reached up and touched his fingers where they curled around the neck of the bottle.   
  
_If something goes wrong and it all blows up..._   
  
"Let me get yours," Watari said, and took the champagne.   
  
He remembered watching a serpent coiling into the night sky, muddied brown as his dreams, and knowing with absolute certainty that if he could not be enough to save someone then he could not deny that person his wish to be destroyed. Brown shifted into flame yellows and overbright gold, and he remembered the bite of his necktie and collar against his throat, remembered words pouring down on him in a harsh and nearly impenetrable accent. He remembered being afraid, and startled, as much from being physically threatened as from feeling the edge of the abyss behind him and knowing that someone else was holding him back from the fall.   
  
"Happy New Year," Tatsumi heard himself saying.   
  
"Happy twenty-first century," Watari corrected.   
  
Outside, somewhere past the foam of sakura trees, someone was setting off fireworks. 


	6. Propinquity

**Author's Note:** Thanks to Shoiryu, who provided teeny bits of the dialogue.  
  
-,--  
  
_"I've seen you make a look of love from just an icy stare--  
I've known you for a long time, but I've just begun to care..."  
--Michael Nesmith, "Propinquity"_  
  
It was not, thus far, a good day.   
  
For one thing, it was a Thursday, and he hated Thursdays; for another, he'd tossed off a rather harsh remark at Tsuzuki in that morning's meeting, and Kurosaki had been glaring at him all day. The weather was too sunny, the coffee was too weak, and when he'd run into Torii and Fukiya they had giggled too loudly.   
  
"Hey, Tatsumi! I was wondering where you'd gotten to. D'you have a minute?"   
  
And, of course, Thursday would not be anything approaching complete without a mad scientist.   
  
He glanced over his shoulder. "I might. What do you need?"   
  
"I was wondering if you could help me monitor an experiment."  
  
Oh, god. He did not need this. Not now, not the day after, not ever. He gritted his teeth, and hoped there was ice in his expression; his othersense registered a faint wobble as his shadow twitched, ever so slightly.   
  
"What sort of experiment?"   
  
"Here, follow me."   
  
Well, all right. Fine.   
  
Watari was already moving down the corridor with quick steps; it wasn't much of an effort to keep up with him. It did, however, take a moment to realise that the door Watari stepped through was not the door to his lab. _If he's doing unauthorised experiments with other people's property,_ he thought, _I'll kill him with my bare hands._   
  
He moved across the threshold, and Watari slipped behind him to close the door; in the moment before semi-darkness folded over the room he noticed how small it was, how devoid of scientific equipment... how many cleaning supplies sat huddled in piles against the far wall.   
  
Watari had brought him into a closet, and he was suddenly very glad he had his back to the door.   
  
"Watari-san." Tatsumi felt more than heard his voice growing harsh. "May I ask what exactly you have in--"   
  
And then the rest of the words were lost, muffled by something firm and yielding and warm--pressed flat and silent by Watari's mouth against his own.   
  
His first reaction was to stiffen in surprise, catlike, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end in sheer alarm. This was not supposed to happen. This had come with no warning, this was unacceptable. It was not, under any circumstances, appropriate.   
  
But Watari's weight was solid against his body, all low heat and smooth lines, and he could feel breath not his own in his mouth, swift as an injured bird struggling for the sky after falling.   
  
Watari was kissing him.   
  
He hadn't been kissed in sixty years.   
  
After the fifth year or so, he'd simply stopped thinking about it, setting it away in his memory alongside comets and total eclipses. It had been nice while it lasted, but its existence in his life had been brief, skimming, touching, then vanishing into the wider reaches of the universe.   
  
Odd, that he'd completely forgotten what it felt like.   
  
How could he have completely lost a sensation? Something this simple, this warm, should have fixed itself firmly in his mind the first time he'd felt it. And, yes, it felt good, and that was slightly alien too--especially when it wasn't something he had to snatch for, something fleeting and bittersweet.   
  
The tension was draining from his shoulders in a slow spiral of release, and he didn't care.   
  
Tatsumi closed his eyes.   
  
Even without muscle memory, he found himself responding; he reached forward and his hands tangled in loose thick hair. That quick breathing turned, briefly, into a sigh, and he felt more than heard it. One heartbeat went by--two--and then Watari was teasing his lips apart with the tip of his tongue; he gave up on anything like resistance and let the slow, warm slide of contact wash over him as the kiss deepened.   
  
Something inside his mind was blossoming in orange and rust and red.   
  
He only realised it when Watari shifted his weight and reached past him to lock the door.


	7. The Itch

**Author's Note:** Everyone be warned--here there be _great big references to sex._ Complete with a mad scientist on top... literally.  
  
-,--  
_"I know what I do is crazy--  
I want to be cold, but I'm out of control."  
--Vitamin C, "The Itch"_   
  
The first time was good; the second time was better, which was frankly surprising.   
  
In all honesty he hadn't expected there to be a second time at all--he'd believed that once would be enough, that one craving was like every other and would disappear once it had been satisfied. And it did feel far less urgent once the last shudders of climax were a faintly blurred memory, hours after they'd been slumped weak-kneed against each other, breathless and shaking. They were consenting adults with no real expectations of each other outside of work, and Watari was pretty sure he'd made it clear that he didn't kiss and tell; it had been a good experience, and it was over.   
  
He hadn't expected the hunger to flare up again two days later, in the middle of a careful conversation about nothing.   
  
Tatsumi had glanced down the corridor mid-sentence, and his line of sight rested on the broom closet door; Watari found himself backing up, moving towards it, and then they were in the dark again and fumbling their clothes off like frustrated teenagers. This time it had lasted longer, had been full of wordless teasing; there had been a bruise high up on his neck for a day or two afterwards where Tatsumi's mouth had found his pulse-point. He'd found himself noticing things that had escaped him the first time around--the way Tatsumi's fingers curled around his shoulderblades, holding him hard and insistent before he was even inside, or the way he nearly choked on his own voice in his efforts to stay quiet.   
  
And this time, when they were both finished, Tatsumi had reached up with one faintly unsteady hand to toy with his hair.   
  
The memory made him smile, as much from the surprise it had stirred as from real remembered pleasure.   
  
Four days passed, and he worked overtime on all of them; he joked with Tsuzuki and with Bon in the afternoons, and was casual with Tatsumi when they met. The fourth night stretched into early morning, hours rolling over one another until it was nearly two o'clock and even 003 had tucked her head under her wing and given up on consciousness.   
  
The knock on the lab door was almost inaudible; his visitor slipped in with the stealth of evening, and perched in near-silence on the edge of his desk.   
  
"Can it wait?" Watari asked, trying to keep his hair out of his eyes with one hand and his boiling flask steady with the other.   
  
"If you like," Tatsumi said quietly.   
  
Heat spilled over him with a quickness that made him shiver; a minute blinked by, and he was sitting up straight, pulling Tatsumi down by his tie, leaning up as long fingers threaded through his hair.   
  
Watari knew himself well enough to know that he could get over wanting someone if he knew what he was missing. All he had to do was wait for the nagging spikes of craving to die down...   
  
But then, he thought, and the thought made him grin--then things wouldn't be half as interesting. 


	8. Least Complicated

_"Some long ago when we were taught that for whatever kind of puzzle you've got  
You just stick the right formula in--a solution for every fool..."  
--The Indigo Girls, "Least Complicated"_   
  
On the whole, he considered himself a very patient man.   
  
He had taught himself a lot over the course of several decades. Languages (or bits of them), skills, the nuances of several types of magic. Given time, he knew he could at least grasp the rudiments of nearly anything he chose to learn or re-learn. It was a very simple piece of self-knowledge, and a very important one, in his opinion.   
  
He just needed time.   
  
In fact, sometimes he just needed to count backwards from ten.   
  
"Your tie is crooked," Watari said lightly.   
  
He took a deep breath, and carefully reminded himself that it was _not_ professional to comment on his colleague's crooked glasses. Nor would it be appropriate to say anything about the sun-gold hair that had worked its way free of his braid, or the way the collar of his lab coat was ever so slightly askew, or the faint smudge of soot on his cheekbone that just _begged_ to be rubbed away...   
  
No. That thought was off-limits, too, and required a very deep breath to fight down.   
  
"Thank you, Watari-san."   
  
He could figure out the particulars of this attraction, given enough time. He could teach himself how to recognise the little cues that stretched the tension between them tighter and tighter still. He could probably even teach himself how _not_ to give in to the singing, buzzing heat that took his veins whenever that tension showed signs of breaking. All he needed was time.   
  
"My pleasure."   
  
But time was rapidly dissolving into nothing more than _now,_ into a very small and very intense focus. He willed his throat not to go dry and tried to determine some safe place outside of this laboratory to centre his thoughts, hoping he didn't look desperate. He was strong enough to beat this if he could just _take enough deep breaths._ It was as simple as that.   
  
"Did you want anything else?"   
  
Really, he was going to ignore the way that one loose tendril of hair fell down over the curve of Watari's throat. It was not important. He didn't need to think about it.   
  
"Actually, there was one more form I needed you to fill out."   
  
Watari made a face, his mouth twisting (deliciously) with distaste. "So much paperwork!"   
  
"I'm afraid so... but the sooner it's out of the way, the better."   
  
_So far, so good,_ Tatsumi thought. He was almost done; in a few more minutes he could get out of the lab and go home to a nice cold shower and a book and an utterly Watari-free environment. All he had to do was make sure that both pages of the form got filled out properly. He almost felt like congratulating himself for resisting the temptation so long--   
  
"You have a pen, right? I can't find mine..."   
  
_--dammit._ "Ah, certainly. Hold on a moment."   
  
He dug the form out of his briefcase and started rummaging for a pen. There was absolutely _no way_ he was going to mention to Watari that he could see the end of a ballpoint pen sticking out of his braid, and he was _not_ going to reach across the lab table to retrieve it, and he was _not_ going to run his fingers through those loose spills of brilliant hair. He had a pen of his own, he was almost sure he did...   
  
Oh god. He had to have a pen somewhere in his pockets. He was an _accountant,_ how could he not have a pen?   
  
"Oh, wait! There it is."   
  
Tatsumi blinked and glanced up.   
  
Watari was pulling the pen free of his hair, the already-loose braid unravelling slowly as he did so. It was much like watching a waterfall push its way through a dam--little spills of motion here and there, each a bit bigger than the last, until crimped bright waves fanned around Watari's shoulders...   
  
"This'll be okay, right?" he asked, holding the pen out.   
  
"Ah... yes. I just have to initial these..."   
  
"Sure."   
  
And Watari smiled, and leaned across the table to hand it to him.   
  
It was easy for Tatsumi to suppress a shiver as Watari's fingertips brushed the base of his palm. It was easy for him to pull in another deep breath. It was easy for him to tell himself, _you're almost there, just a few more steps and you can go._   
  
But it was painfully easy for him to reach over and brush a loose gold tendril back behind Watari's ear.   
  
He had learned to recognise that, in those rare moments before his will collapsed entirely, there was a heartbeat's worth of perfect clarity. The _now_ made sense, it was right, it was ridiculously enjoyable. Nothing existed beyond it. There was no world and no concern outside of the way Watari's hair felt beneath his fingertips, the warmth between them, the faint flush and the realisation starting to creep into the scientist's handsome features.   
  
And then something snapped, and he had no time for a deep breath before his mouth was pushed against Watari's in a hungry, insistent kiss.   
  
He always forgot how good his kisses tasted until that taste was warm and vivid in his own mouth. It was an astonishingly honest taste, a blend of heat and some sort of damn frivolous candy--breathmints, maybe? Sweet, but not cloyingly so, just an edge of something distinct playing across his tongue before the warmth of _contact_ pulled him under.   
  
Something clattered harshly against the table, and he realised rather fuzzily that his glasses had come off. Not that it mattered, because the darkness behind his eyelids was full of strange colours and he could _feel_ silver jumping and racing along his skin above his collar, which was new.   
  
_The best way to overcome temptation,_ he thought, and the rest of the quote got lost as Watari pulled him onto the table.   
  
It was, for about a second and a half, distinctly surreal to realise that cravings could hit him harder after death--when he had a body that was better at healing itself--than they could in life; then the thought liquified and all of it fell away except for _craving._ His hands were flat against bare skin, and it took him a moment to realise that he'd managed to work Watari's shirt off halfway and that his own jacket was twisting and sliding away from his chest and he was making a harsh low noise that wasn't muffled anymore because he wasn't actually being kissed, at least not on the mouth.   
  
There was a spot beneath and behind his ear whose existence he'd never really noticed; Watari had found it within a week of their first hurried encounter in the supply closet, and he teased it now with hot breath and slowly sliding tongue. Shivers spilled green and blue down his spine, flashes of butterfly colour that made his fingers go nerveless and his vision blur.   
  
He was only distantly aware that some of the buttons on his vest and shirt were missing, and the sound of quiet clicking on the table and the floor registered more than the feeling of his second skin of fabric being suddenly gone.   
  
It wasn't that he lost control, or yielded it. Control simply ceased to be important, dissolving under the fiercer drive of tension and release. He was still himself, but the heat drove away the parts of him that were _shinigami_ and secretary and professional: he was a man, with his hair in his eyes and his clothes half off, who moaned _"please"_ and meant it, and who arched with his whole body when his belt came loose and the slim hand that had undone it fell lower, lower still.   
  
There was something absurdly enjoyable about letting this happen, about letting himself drink in the feeling of familiar weight on top of him and warm skin against his own.   
  
He threw back his head, and the sound he made was almost a laugh.


	9. Addicted To Love

_"You'd like to think that you're immune to the stuff,  
But it's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough."  
--Robert Palmer, "Addicted To Love"_   
  
All things considered, though some people would have called it a honeymoon, it was probably more accurate to call it a jack-in-the-box: the box closed, the spring wound, and then whatever tension existed simply exploded when the moment struck.   
  
Sometimes it was merely a look that set off the explosion. Sometimes one of them would lean too close; sometimes they would be at opposite ends of the room when it went off. They were of course discreet--silence, or at least careful quiet, was an unspoken condition in their understanding--but they had become attuned enough to one another to recognise the cues and know how long they would have to lock doors and draw blinds.   
  
The first month was a collection of incidents as distinct as the stones on a necklace. All in all it had happened eight times, and each time had in some way been an improvement over the last, despite the fumbling and the occasional ripped shirt. There had been two minor and wordless struggles, close to the beginning, over who was on top; fortunately, those had been resolved by the discovery that it was just as enjoyable either way.   
  
Then something strange had happened, some unidentifiable chemical reaction that sparked and whirred into existence between them, and the second month had been more or less a blur. Watari wasn't at all sure how they'd gotten any work done, let alone kept anyone else from noticing them; he felt as if he were constantly rumpled, as if his braid were perpetually half-undone and his lab coat too loose to stay firmly on his shoulders. He could smell someone else's skin on his hands even after he'd washed them, even when he was working with an experiment that required gloves.   
  
Another month and a half brought a more subtle shift. There was less tension in Tatsumi's shoulders when they stood close together, and they'd left far fewer accidental bruises on one another; they'd taken to teasing one another with fingernails and tongues and the occasional quiet word. More often than not one of them would be smiling when the afterglow hit. The need was still there, craving running dangerously hot as electrical currents between them, but the frustration rarely surfaced anymore.   
  
It was strange, and it was pleasant, and he found himself enjoying it more than he'd expected he might.   
  
He particularly liked the changes in his routine that had begun to crop up, little unpredictable fireworks throughout the day.   
  
One of them went off without warning on a Monday, when he'd found Tatsumi clocking in from his lunch break and hadn't been able to resist sliding an arm around his waist. Friction dissolved into heat even as his chest slid against Tatsumi's back, as he nosed Tatsumi's collar out of the way and kissed the nape of his neck; they both knew he'd hit the timer on a dangerously short-fused bomb.   
  
"This is absurd," Tatsumi hissed, more breathless than angry.   
  
"Mm, no it's not. Nobody's looking."   
  
"Nobody was--ah--looking this morning, either..."   
  
Watari reached up, curled his fingers blindly around the knot of his necktie. "So? It could be worse."   
  
"How?"   
  
"One of us could be dressed like a French maid."   
  
There was a moment of dead silence before Tatsumi started to laugh.   
  
The laugh started in his shoulders, a faint shaking, and bubbled outwards like foam from a boiling pot; the sounds were choked but distinct, little hiccups of breath. He leaned against the wall, inadvertently taking Watari with him, and both men nearly lost their balance--which only made him laugh all the harder.   
  
Watari was tempted, for a moment, to ask him what exactly was so funny, but he didn't make it more than two words into the question before his own voice began to break and he buried his face between Tatsumi's shoulderblades, helpless with mirth.   
  
He'd never really heard Tatsumi laughing before, and he hadn't guessed that the sound could be so infectious.


	10. Falling Is Like This

_"And we'll say we didn't know, we didn't even try--  
One minute there was road beneath us, and the next just sky."  
--Ani diFranco, "Falling Is Like This"_   
  
Summer had grown progressively hotter, more distinctive from the rest of the seasons over the last few years, and when it rolled around again it was sweltering and oversaturated in blue. Routine bent around it, just a little: there were a few staff meetings outside underneath the sakura, and the dress code more or less went completely ignored. Everyone seemed oddly relaxed, even when the heat sapped their patience.   
  
Most of his co-workers preferred to review case notes and do their paperwork--or pretend to do so, at the very least--out in the sun, or in the most light-drenched of the offices. Only one of them knew he preferred the shade, and drew him towards it.   
  
They lay in a haphazard tangle, still breathless, on Tatsumi's desk; the room was mercifully cool. Little ripples of gold scattered across his senses, faint aftershocks; Watari's fingers were at last uncurling from his shoulder.   
  
"Your hair's all messed up," Watari said quietly, the words just a bit ragged.   
  
"So is yours." He nosed in, and they kissed once, a soft point of contact with no real meaning.   
  
When he pulled back, Watari was smiling, brown eyes light with amusement. "It kind of looks cute this way."   
  
"It gets in my eyes," Tatsumi complained.   
  
"Pff, you'll get used to it."   
  
"I have no plans to, thank you."   
  
Watari rolled his eyes, an exaggerated but affectionate gesture. "Honestly, Seiichiro..."   
  
The next breath he took felt suddenly sharp, as if he'd suddenly been made aware of how his lungs worked. When he let out the air on a long exhale, he was aware that the muscles in his jaw had gone rigid, tightening so hard they almost hurt.   
  
Watari blinked up at him. "Something wrong?"   
  
He thought of the last few months, of the wordless agreements they'd made and the nuances they'd learned. He thought of how distracted he'd been from regret, from guilt, from his own sense of duty. He thought of uncertainty, of being utterly unable to guess at this man's thoughts or intentions, of the moments he'd found himself laughing at something he might once have found an outright insult.   
  
He closed his eyes for a moment, and he saw yellow and tan, with only slight touches of grey.   
  
And he smiled.   
  
"Not at all, Yutaka."   
  
And that was that, with no explanation and no acknowledgement aside from slow and almost embarrassed smiles.   
  
Strange, he thought, that he'd once believed he'd feel empty if he came to the point where he didn't want or need to say something to a particular person. Or that he'd never permit a co-worker to call him by his given name.   
  
Besides, it didn't sound half as awkward as he'd imagined.


	11. Amazed

_"With you, there's no easy answer, it's true:  
You change the equation I add up to."  
--Poe, "Amazed"_   
  
Most people would have looked at the calendar and thought, _that's five months and a bit,_ but for some reason the numbers rearranged themselves in Tatsumi's head and he thought, _that's twenty-one weeks._   
  
He was growing accustomed to hearing his given name behind closed doors, to being teased, to not flinching when his glasses slid off of his face. More often than not he woke from dreams and found he could remember flashes of blue or yellow, shades of brilliance mixed in with the usual browns and greys. Privately, he still thought of their situation as a gentleman's agreement of sorts--everything between them kept private, any acknowledgement of the relationship as quiet as possible--but day by day he found his personal boundaries reshaping themselves, like a red banner running and fading under weather.   
  
The week drew towards a close, slowly, and on Friday he found a decision sparking into existence at the back of his throat.   
  
"Do you want to have dinner?"   
  
_Damn,_ he thought, as soon as the words were out; they felt awkward in the air, a clumsy paper airplane speeding towards the ground.   
  
Watari looked up from his boiling flask, eyes faintly confused behind his glasses, test tube poised over the flask's lip. "'Scuse me?"   
  
"If you don't, that's fine--"   
  
"Are you asking me out?"   
  
Tatsumi was faintly astonished at himself--it had been a very long time since he'd wished to melt through a crack in the floor and disappear. Why was he so embarrassed? Why did this feel so strange, after they'd made it very clear to one another they were capable of behaving like the consenting adults they were?   
  
Why did it make part of him cold with fear, more than public flirting ever had?   
  
"Yes," he heard his own voice saying. "I am."   
  
"I like Italian."   
  
Astonishing, that Watari could address him in such a casual tone, so calm about whatever it was that was happening between them. Relief and something very like anger ran together into a bitter taste in his mouth, and he felt the beginnings of a peeved comment rising to his lips--   
  
"Shit, _get down!"_   
  
He barely had time to duck before the flask exploded, sending hot glass and vile-smelling liquid spraying outwards; something nicked his hand, and he ignored the brief sting.   
  
"What on earth...?"   
  
Watari peered over the edge of the lab table as the smoke began to clear. His bangs were dull with soot, and his glasses had been knocked askew by the blast.   
  
"I spilled," he admitted, sounding somewhat embarrassed.   
  
It took a great deal of effort for Tatsumi to keep himself from smiling until he had the lab door safely closed behind him.


	12. Friday

_"I don't care if Monday's blue,  
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too,  
Thursday I don't care about you..."  
--The Cure, "Friday (I'm In Love)"_   
  
Regularity set in quickly; so did the realisation that it might be a problem. They found two restaurants they liked, one Italian and one more or less quick pan-Asian noodles, both cheap and relatively close to their apartments; unless someone was working overtime, they met at seven-thirty or eight, twice a week. Sometimes their dates would be on Mondays, or a rare Tuesday--but there would always be dinner on Thursday nights.   
  
The problem was that it was undeniably a routine, and one in which they could very easily get caught.   
  
He wasn't honestly sure he cared that much about his co-workers finding out--if nothing else, he would have loved to see the look on Tsuzuki's face when he found out that Tatsumi had a real, honest-to-god sex life--but he also knew that Tatsumi was a very private man, who would rather have mediated a staff meeting naked than admitted that he was seeing someone outside of work.   
  
During the day, in meetings or the break room or across the table from Bon, he was Watari-san. Behind the closed doors of a lab or office, or after work, he shed the name as easily as an overlarge coat and was simply Yutaka. He'd heard both names spoken sharply, with a warning edge; he'd heard them both accompanied by laughter, too. The divide between one name and the other wasn't a sharp one--just significant, like the click of a lock sliding shut. _Click,_ and he was the resident computer expert and mad inventor; _click,_ and he was the only person who could make Tatsumi Seiichiro lose his temper or laugh like a schoolboy.   
  
He was beginning to love Thursdays, partially because, as a scientist, he'd always believed that regularity only existed to be bent out of place.   
  
"We're going to lunch," he announced, leaning across the threshold of Tatsumi's office.   
  
Tatsumi glanced up from his calculator, one eyebrow raised. "I beg your pardon?"   
  
"I'm taking you to lunch. Go get your coat."   
  
"For goodness' sake, close the door--"   
  
"I will when you're out here in the hall," he said sweetly.   
  
Watching Tatsumi's temper rise was like observing the very beginnings of a dam giving out--a rusted beam shivering here, a crack in concrete appearing there. It was a perverse pleasure to see the process in action and know he was causing it.   
  
"I thought," Tatsumi said, and his voice was tight, "we agreed to have dinner tomorrow."   
  
"I don't want to wait. You like Mediterranean? There's this Greek place I haven't tried--"   
  
"Someone is going to notice."   
  
He considered for a moment.   
  
"I'll bring the outline for the new library server."   
  
Tatsumi put down the calculator.   
  
"You're out of line," he said, but there was a slight catch in his tone that Watari knew intimately well by now. He'd won.   
  
"And you're cute when you're mad. I'll meet you outside in five minutes!"   
  
He didn't catch Tatsumi's response as he moved off down the corridor. He was laughing too hard.   
  
Experiments were no fun unless you changed the variables, after all.


	13. Thank You

_"And even if my house falls down now,  
I wouldn't have a clue."  
--Dido, "Thank You"_   
  
Good night kisses had become pleasantly dangerous.   
  
There had been dinner, at a cheap Thai place down the street from Tatsumi's apartment; after that it had started raining, and Watari had wanted to take a cab, but not without saying good night first. Tatsumi, standing on the threshold with his keys in his hand, hadn't expected the light to hit those dark-amber eyes in such an interesting way.   
  
That kiss was long and liquid and full of heat, and what happened afterwards was deliciously clumsy. Bed was a whole new experience, awkward in its softness, unexpectedly yielding.   
  
Watari was too tired to get dressed and leave. Tatsumi was too breathless to care.   
  
It felt like hours later that his pulse slowed enough for him to count heartbeats. Tatsumi opened his eyes, and the ceiling was an ocean of darkness; the non-sight was deeply familiar.   
  
The weight against his right arm was not.   
  
The warmth was alien, as was the soft noise of someone else's breathing. Coils of softness spilled across his bare skin--warm and loosened hair. He lifted a hand, tangling his fingers into that damp-silk smoothness; the motion shifted sections of Watari's braid apart, stirring a faint smell of rain and something mildly chemical. He'd breathed in that smell during countless kisses, but it had always been a blur in his senses, something that got lost in the rush of sex or vanished after they pulled away from one another.   
  
He inhaled, deeply. Rain hissed and pattered against the windows, a murmur beneath the slowing rhythm of breath that still beat against his shoulder.   
  
_I suppose you can stay here,_ he said, and then realised somewhat dimly that he hadn't actually spoken it aloud: he was tired, and his tongue wouldn't move properly; his voice had already curled up and gone to sleep in the back of his throat.   
  
Part of his mind insisted, very quietly, that having a scientist dozing on top of him was probably going to be a bad idea in the long run. He had already implicitly agreed to break his own rules, let his boundaries tumble down one by one, and though flashes of gold and orange lurked in strange corners of his thoughts, there was still something at his core that recoiled from brightness. Part of him whispered, _hold your breath, you're going to burn._   
  
Breath and rain washed over him, stroking it out of his mind like a wet brush blurring paint.   
  
He realised, rather fuzzily, that his arm had gone numb, and then he slept. 


	14. Truthfully

_"Surprise, 'cause you showed up with your parachute.  
Surprise, I'm kind of happy that you showed up."  
--Lisa Loeb, "Truthfully"_   
  
"Kurosaki-kun! You're not budgeted for any more laughing this quarter! Stop that right this instant and get back to work!"   
  
Tsuzuki nearly howled with laughter; beside him, Hisoka was red-faced and shaking, trying to contain the fit of giggles that threatened to explode at any moment. He was finding it hard to suppress a grin, himself--but the show had to go on, and he found himself taking another deep breath and brandishing the pointer menacingly.   
  
"From now on, Tsuzuki-san, no dessert! Ever!"   
  
"C-cut it out," Tsuzuki managed. "I mean it--"   
  
"The only thing that's getting cut is your budget! And now," he added, his voice sinking to a dramatic stage-whisper, "it's time... to _water the potted plant."_   
  
At last, Hisoka stopped attempting to hold it in, and the sound he made was almost a whoop; he doubled over, knees nearly giving out under the force of that much hilarity. The break room walls rang with the noise, raucous and completely uninhibited--   
  
_"What is going on here?"_   
  
Watari startled, almost dropping the pointer. Something very tall and very dark was occupying the doorway--   
  
--watching him with a flat blue gaze.   
  
"Hi," he managed, a little weakly.   
  
Tatsumi moved into the room in long strides, his expression utterly calm even as the other two _shinigami_ struggled to get themselves under control. He was stone, blank and unreadable, intimidating in his silence; the watering can in his hand added a chilling edge to his presence.   
  
"Don't you two have _work_ to do?" he asked, directing the comment rather pointedly at Tsuzuki and Hisoka; the effect was like firing a shotgun at a tree full of crows, and the break room suddenly thundered with silence.   
  
"Um," Watari said.   
  
Something cold moved up his spine in a swift jolt--fear, he realised. He'd probably crossed a line, poked a little too hard at that tightly coiled pride without meaning to, and the lack of tension he'd grown to enjoy would vanish into knots in Tatsumi's shoulders. He could almost hear the cold disapproval, the clipped and angry speech, the almost-imperceptible rumble beneath his tone that stood in for vulnerability...   
  
Tatsumi watched him a moment longer, then moved to the sink. Water hissed steadily: he'd apparently decided that discussing this was beneath him. Something in the back of Watari's throat went cold and sank towards his stomach.   
  
He waited for the faucet to squeak closed, and then coughed quietly to try and get his attention.   
  
"Seiichiro, I--"   
  
"That was," Tatsumi interrupted, "the poorest excuse for a Tokyo accent I have ever heard in my entire life."   
  
He turned away from the sink, glancing up, and for a moment Watari could see the faintest glimmer of something warm behind his eyes--not rage, not hurt, but the beginnings of a laugh.   
  
"Like you could do better Kansai."   
  
"As a matter of fact, I think I probably could."   
  
And with that, Tatsumi lifted the watering can and flipped it over, dumping its entire contents onto Watari's head with a loud and very undignified _splap._


	15. Blame It On Me

_"Then you smile again  
But you're looking at me as if there's something I'm supposed to say."  
--Barenaked Ladies, "Blame It On Me"_   
  
Darkness coiled under the door, cobwebby fingers the same shade of black as a violent storm front. It trickled across the floor and puddled beneath the desk; it was eerily silent, and so was its master.   
  
He had a tendency to stand very straight when he was upset; there was a muscle at the corner of his mouth that went rigid. It changed his entire expression, the way a shift in lighting changed the shapes of objects in paintings. He was perfectly composed in his anger, and while it could be frightening, it was also frustrating.   
  
"You have been here all night," he said slowly, "and if you cause one more minor explosion, Terazuma-san is going to call security and have you physically removed from the building."   
  
Watari felt the frustration rise and grow hot in his palms; a lack of sleep or of significant progress on his experiment had eaten at his temper, and Tatsumi's expressionless tone was pushing him to a precarious limit. He'd been up all night, and he knew he wasn't doing well--he'd been trying to make a mess of chemicals do something all night, and they had steadfastly refused to behave in a manner that produced anything remotely like good results. At one point, he could fuzzily recall, he'd slammed a hand on his desk and thought _science is messing with me, the bitch._   
  
"Just leave me alone and let me finish, okay?"   
  
"You need to put this down and come back to it later," Tatsumi said, just as calmly as before.   
  
He had chemicals and glass and anger; Tatsumi stood before him like a block of marble, and at that moment he forgot the sex and the stupid jokes and the feeling of long hands in his hair. A sculptor could not make anything of value, could not communicate, without driving a chisel hard into pure smoothness and splitting stone.   
  
"Because either way it's a stupid waste of time, in your precious opinion," Watari snapped, "and you want me to cut it out and go home."   
  
The silence that followed was slight, a sliver of time barely less than a heartbeat, but it was as distinct as a slap.   
  
"I didn't say that."   
  
"You don't have to."   
  
"You're being childish--"   
  
"--and you're the goddamn grownup all the time, huh?"   
  
That muscle at the corner of Tatsumi's mouth tightened further; something went flat behind his eyes. "I am going to give you ten minutes to put away your equipment and clock out before I give Terazuma-san permission to call security."   
  
Watari felt the comment forming, hot and barbed, on his tongue--and then the voice slashed through his thoughts like a sudden spike of shadow.   
  
"Yutaka. _Go home right now."_   
  
He felt his eyes widen and his heart thud like a slow lead machine in his chest. He'd heard Tatsumi shout, and he'd heard him scream; he had never heard this before. The tone had bubbled up from somewhere at the base of his spine, and the force behind it was like steel and stone and dark water swallowing ships.   
  
It was like gravity, and it pulled him back to earth.   
  
Dazed, he moved to put away his equipment. Within seven minutes he was stumbling out into the street, blinking at sunshine and nearly reeling under the force of a headache.   
  
He wasn't sure how he got to bed. What he did remember, when he woke up in the cool black of midnight, was that he'd dreamed of breaking an entire rack of flasks and watching chemicals spread across a white floor, coming together at last in bizarre synergy so that the shattered glass at his feet shimmered the same deep blue as a summer sky.


	16. Slide

_"Do you wake up on your own and wonder where you are?  
You live with all your faults."  
--Goo Goo Dolls, "Slide"_   
  
Silence made work far less bearable. The perfect order of his desk bored him; the break-room coffee tasted terrible; the potted plant was drowning; and he was seriously considering docking Fukiya's paycheck for no other reason than that he had the power to do it.   
  
It had been two days, and he'd kept quiet because that was simply the way he was. Reaching out always made him uncomfortable, made him feel as if he were putting his hand into a barrel filled with poisonous snakes and waiting for the inevitable sting; he had enough private scars to know that the venom never quite stopped burning.   
  
The fact remained, however, that without gold and brown and tan, without even grey on the canvas of a workday, a sunlit afternoon felt black and chilly.   
  
That almost upset him more than the harsh words had. The worst thing about knowing that someone could make him smile, could unknot the tension in his shoulders with a look or a touch, was that he also knew how badly the absence of that warmth could bite into him. He hid it well, he knew, channeling his frustration into long hours of number-crunching and ferocious attacks on his to-do list. It wasn't enough to keep him from staring at the ceiling for hours in bed, not even trying to sleep, or snapping at Tsuzuki when he tentatively asked was everything okay.   
  
By three o'clock, he was seriously considering admitting defeat and throwing the potted plant out altogether.   
  
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes; the darkness was mercifully welcome. He was tired and nearly overwhelmed by a growing sense of pointlessness, but the thought of going home and having dinner alone was even worse than sitting at his desk into the small hours of the night.   
  
Someone shuffled outside, and he heard the doorknob turn. His frustration spiked briefly: if that was Tsuzuki, he was going to give him a stern talking-to about what was and was not his business.   
  
"Tsuzuki-san," he said, without opening his eyes, "whatever it is, it's going to have to wait--"   
  
"I'm a jerk."   
  
That made him sit up very straight. He glanced up at the door: it was half-open, and a cascade of yellow hair spilled against the edge of the doorframe.   
  
Watari looked uncharacteristically miserable.   
  
"I didn't mean it, and I'm sorry."   
  
For a moment Tatsumi considered telling him to go back to his lab, to go back to Block Six, and never bother him again--but the thought was a snowflake too close to a candle flame. He rose to his feet, and moved to the doorway in slow strides; Watari watched him with a look that might have been unhappy or hopeful. He was vulnerable now, and he was letting it show; that was a strange indication of trust and of his sincerity.   
  
"If you ever stay that late again," Tatsumi said quietly, "I will remove you from the building myself and _make_ you sleep."   
  
Watari's expression flickered briefly, and finally settled into a lopsided smile.   
  
"Is that a promise?"   
  
Tatsumi kissed him then. He hoped it was answer enough.


	17. You May Be Right

_"You may be right, I may be crazy,  
But it just might be a lunatic you're looking for."  
--Billy Joel, "You May Be Right"_   
  
Somewhere around the seventh month, they found themselves going out more often, but not quite making it to the restaurants they planned to visit. More often than not, they'd spend a good ten minutes trying to decide where to eat, and then one of them would say something faintly suggestive or a warm look would pass between them, and they'd be stumbling across the threshold of someone's apartment trying to get their clothes off as fast as possible.   
  
Several times, they didn't even reach the bed.   
  
It was yet another unspoken rule that, once they'd both gone inside an apartment, neither of them would leave until morning. They were only late to work twice, and nobody at the office really seemed to notice or care.   
  
Between the guilty looks they exchanged over the time clock at work and the long drift of afterglow, something exquisitely strange happened: they got used to one another.   
  
Tatsumi slept face-up, and rarely moved once he had drifted off; once something woke him, he didn't go back to sleep unless he was actually forced to stay in bed. He never hit the snooze button on his alarm clock, and he kept his glasses at the far end of the bedside table, so he would have to get out of bed in order to retrieve them.   
  
Watari slept face-down, literally on top of Tatsumi regardless of whether or not he had in fact been on top of him while they were very much awake. No matter how much coffee he drank, no matter how much sleep he'd had, he was incapable of functioning before nine-thirty a.m. at the earliest. He liked to stay up late and get up later, and he could never remember where he put his glasses.   
  
They learned, in subtle shifting and quite a lot of trial and error, how to share a bed so that they didn't wake up in a tangle of cramped limbs. They learned how to prod one another awake in the mornings, and how exactly they fit into one another's clothes.   
  
Summer had already blazed into autumn, and autumn was mellowing into a chilly November.   
  
On some nights, they lay awake and talked in the dark.   
  
They ended up at Tatsumi's apartment on a long, blue Friday night; half of the evening was a slow blur of heat and teasing. Once it was finished, once they lay lazy and loosely draped against each other, quiet settled in comfortably like a flock of tired birds.   
  
"Do you think the neighbours heard us?" Watari asked at last.   
  
"They might have heard _you."_   
  
"Oh, ha ha, very funny. Nobody likes a smart-ass."   
  
_But you do,_ Tatsumi thought, before he could stop himself.   
  
There was another long moment of lull.   
  
"We should go to Kyoto next weekend."   
  
Tatsumi blinked, and managed to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Why?"   
  
"To see the gardens. I haven't been in a while, and it'd be a real shame if I let the bad times have the whole city, you know?"   
  
He thought of the last time he'd been in Kyoto; he thought of the misery he'd felt near the heart of a fire, and the death throes of an old love reflected in the slender blade of a sword. He thought of the things that hadn't been said, and the things that had, and the terrifying moment of knowing that someone else's hands on his collar were all that held him back from falling.   
  
He thought of a single lucid moment, grey but faintly brown with drifting maple leaves, when he'd half listened to Watari describing having grown up there. He thought of faint and watery highlights of colour on his memory, and of the flame colours in his dreams.   
  
_Nobody wants to take it back, but you do._   
  
"Yes," he murmured. "You're right." 


	18. I Don't Care

**Author's Note:** Wakaba's hobby, by the way, is not canon by any means. It was a cute mental image, though.  
Beware of unsubtle parallels and renegade weather patterns.  
  
-,--  
  
_"You don't know any dance steps, but I do.  
I don't know why I love you like I do."  
--Elvis Presley, "(You're So Square, Baby) I Don't Care"_   
  
Christmas was cold, and the weeks after were colder. There was some mild speculation in the Bureau that the weather might be a reflection of the stinging cold fronts moving through the living world; one rumour put forward the theory that it was because humans tended to get more depressed or desperate in the depths of winter and the high heat of summer.   
  
In the afterlife, the chill was an irritation, but it was a bearable one. For one thing, it did terribly interesting things to his co-workers' wardrobes: everyone was wearing scarves and long coats and high-necked sweaters. Even 003 puffed herself up to preen feathers that were slightly more grey and white than they had been during the fall.   
  
For another, he found that the weather made a great excuse to test their limits again.   
  
He sidled up too close to Tatsumi when they walked home; he slid cold hands under Tatsumi's sweater when they were alone in the break room. He edged them a half-step closer to being public each time, and each time the reaction was the same--an almost angry hiss, a sudden stiffening or a sharp word about _please_ keeping his hands to himself where people might _see._ It was irritating, he knew, and he apologised for it with the small gestures he knew would loosen the tension in Tatsumi's shoulders, but the fact was that he couldn't help acting on his curiosity.   
  
Besides, as much fun as he was in bed or on a date, he really had to lighten up and learn how to take a joke.   
  
The temperature dropped again midway through January, and for the first time Watari noticed that Tatsumi actually shivered in the sharp air when they walked home from work together. That was strange, and it shocked him into silence the first evening he saw it--after all, if Tatsumi was anything he was solid, strong against nearly everything and thick-skinned against annoyances. A shiver that came from chill rather than fingers along the back of his neck was a silent admission of imperfection.   
  
On the second evening, he paused, and found himself tugging his scarf away from his neck. Tatsumi raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth as if to protest--but then Watari reached up with a quick gesture and looped the scarf around his neck instead, over the collar of his coat, and the smile that passed between them then was distinctly awkward.   
  
The third evening was grey, not like steel or stone, just heavy and dark and very slightly blue. This time they talked a little, vague nothings about the work day and the rather lumpy scarf Wakaba-chan was knitting for her partner.   
  
Something brushed Watari's cheek, and he glanced up. Tatsumi's hands were still buried in his pockets, but he had stopped walking, face tilted up towards the sky.   
  
Light, cold touches, like lines painted with a hair-thin brush, skimmed across his cheeks and stirred his hair...   
  
Snow.   
  
"Hey," he heard himself saying, a smile already tugging at his lips. "Hey, finally--"   
  
A shadow, thin and fuzzy under the weak light, spilled across his shoulder. He turned his head, and the lines of Tatsumi's gloved palm were firm against his jaw.   
  
"Um," he began, suddenly aware that his pulse was overloud in his ears. "Seiichiro, what--"   
  
And the rest of the words were lost, consumed by the warmth and pressure of Tatsumi's mouth on his.   
  
He knew his eyes were wide, but he couldn't see anything. His hands were tingling, and numbness was starting to gather in his fingertips; he knew it wasn't the cold. They were within five minutes of the main office complex--in all likelihood, anyone on the front steps would have seen them--and it was snowing, and they were kissing.   
  
No, that wasn't quite right. He was still taut with surprise; Tatsumi was starting to pull away.   
  
The cold suddenly made no difference at all.   
  
In a swift movement, he hooked his arms around Tatsumi's neck and pulled himself closer; he felt a warm hand at the small of his back in the heartbeat before he closed his eyes. The wind picked up, a little colder, a little sharper; there was snow melting in his hair and on the edges of his collar and he barely felt it.   
  
It was Tatsumi who pulled back first, who offered him a more confident version of his usual uncertain smile--something not shy, but not sure of itself either.   
  
"I've always wondered what it would be like," he said quietly, "to--do that, in the snow."   
  
Watari felt something under his collarbone shake and bristle. The world started tunneling around him, closing over his head as if he were in free fall and hurtling towards something razor-sharp. Something like panic flared in him, briefly, lit up his veins in electric blue; something screamed _run, retreat, fire at will, this wasn't supposed to happen._   
  
Then it was gone, and a dizzy, effervescent peace flowed in its place, coming in like the tide.   
  
"See," he heard himself saying, "that's the fun thing about the scientific method."   
  
Tatsumi laughed, and let his hand drop from Watari's face; the touch left tiny streaks of electricity under his skin. "You're hopeless."   
  
The best and worst of it, Watari thought, was that he was right. 


	19. You And I

**Comments:** This owes a huge amount to Shoiryu's Tatsumi, so I gots to give credit where it's due.  
  
-,--  
_"You know I never could foresee the future years;  
You know I never could see where life was leading me..."  
--Queen, "You And I"_   
  
As novel as the sudden cold front had been, it was mercifully short-lived, and began to disappear just when everyone was becoming really sick of it; the eternal spring of the afterlife returned slowly, returning to a state of nearly riotous flowering. That brought out a sort of collective relaxation in the Bureau; no one huddled at their desks or bundled up against biting wind. Despite the spike in bizarre crimes that generally came with _hanami_ and the change in seasons on earth, the overall mood among the employees of the Summons Division was one of relief.   
  
There were constant _hanami_ parties on the front lawn.   
  
For the most part, they were little; some of them were no more than dates with an added bonus of looking at trees. Many carried the excuse of a case completed and well done, and some were simply held because it was just so nice outside, and it'd be a waste not to take advantage after that kind of winter, wouldn't it?   
  
And though the novelty wore off after a month or two, there were still occasional front-lawn parties and picnics, and for some reason that seemed encouraging... especially since Tsuzuki and Hisoka were becoming something of a permanent fixture after work, roaming under the flower-heavy branches for hours.   
  
Watari thought it was pretty cute, really. He liked to watch them when Tatsumi was late meeting him for a dinner date, or when he had to kill an extra hour waiting for an experiment to gel (sometimes literally) in the lab. Often he couldn't see their faces, but their body language said everything: they walked close together, shoulders almost touching, and sometimes there would be a single clear moment when one of them leaned on the other. A blur of pale hair would flash against Tsuzuki's shoulder, and their shapes would suddenly be indistinct, one rather than two.   
  
He always turned away from the sight grinning like an idiot.   
  
One particular afternoon broke particularly fine across the lawn, spilling through the windows in a brilliant blaze of white and pink, and something about the light and the way it slanted made him feel restless. He loved the lab, but today he couldn't stay inside; he wanted to go outside and breathe warm air and maybe climb a tree. He felt crazy, and self-contained in his sudden lightheadedness: this impulse didn't involve Tatsumi, and he couldn't quite picture the two of them doing something outrageous.   
  
That thought was blue and very faintly bittersweet, but then again, Tatsumi was Tatsumi and he was himself. There couldn't be anything between them otherwise.   
  
He clocked out after lunch, and slung his jacket over his shoulders as he made his way down the front steps, feeling the fabric billow slightly with a breath of wind--and the thought of how melodramatic he'd look to anyone else, all yellow ponytail and red coat, made him laugh. The air was soft with spring, and 003 flew ahead of him to do wobbly loops and search for mice in the grass; for a moment he considered just sitting down on the steps and watching the sky.   
  
"Hey!"   
  
The voice was too familiar to ignore. Watari turned sharply, and saw Tatsumi making his way down the steps, briefcase in one hand. Something welcome and a little electric moved in his chest; it was brilliant for a moment, and then the world started to revolve again.   
  
"What are you doing away from your desk?" he heard himself asking.   
  
"Following you," Tatsumi replied, and lifted a hand to adjust his glasses. "I thought you were going to stay."   
  
"It's a beautiful day, and... eh, I've racked up more than enough overtime." He made a vague gesture, and then rubbed at the back of his neck, a little sheepishly.   
  
Tatsumi made a noise that was almost a humourless laugh.   
  
"If a certain field agent had your dedication," he said, his tone heavy with irony, "I wouldn't have to keep docking his pay for all the damage he causes."   
  
"Oh, honestly! He's practically on his honeymoon. Don't you know the meaning of being gentle, Seiichiro?"   
  
He knew that remark would probably make him blush, if only very faintly; he knew it would probably earn him a disapproving look, and he wasn't sure he cared. By now the raised eyebrow and the dismissive little noise were more than familiar, and he felt a strange thrill when he saw and heard them.   
  
"I can show no mercy when it comes to money," Tatsumi shot back, but his ears were slightly pink. "You know that."   
  
"All too well. Honestly, it's like your heart is made out of concrete." And, as if to prove his point, Watari stepped forward and poked him squarely in the chest.   
  
Tatsumi didn't sway or yield his ground, but he did look a little wounded.   
  
"It is not," he protested. "I just wish he would set his priorities in order, is all."   
  
"His priority right now is L-O-V-E. Come on, even _you_ have to have some idea of what that's like."   
  
He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it. He knew it must have sounded too much like pressure, like wheedling, trying to draw out some solid assessment of his feelings where silence would have served just as well. It was unbearably awkward, especially because he'd never actually asked anything of Tatsumi--what had happened between them had simply happened, either by mutual and silent decision or by sheer dumb luck.   
  
The apology was just starting to coalesce on his tongue when Tatsumi asked, "Don't you?"   
  
One of the things that frustrated and intrigued Watari most about him was that he never quite made himself readable. There was always something hidden, always a quiet corner of mystery about what he did or said that was open to interpretation. When he didn't want someone to know what he was thinking, he concealed it, and did it well.   
  
For some reason, Watari felt himself smiling.   
  
"Of course I do."   
  
"It's nice, isn't it?" Tatsumi asked lightly, as if he were simply making an inquiry about the weather.   
  
"Nothing like it."   
  
A long moment of quiet passed between them, one that was neither uncertain nor understanding.   
  
"I'll meet you back here after work, then," Tatsumi said at last, half-turning to move back up the steps.   
  
He frowned, and swayed, almost wanting to follow that challenge back into the building. "What's happening after work?"   
  
"You don't remember?"   
  
"Remember _what?"_   
  
Tatsumi smiled, and despite himself Watari felt that strange slight ripple of warmth move in electric patterns up his spine again.   
  
"Last year... you really don't remember?" he prompted, almost teasingly. Sometimes, Watari thought, he could be uncomfortably like a grade-school teacher, the kind who prodded childish minds through difficult problems until they came out sulky but competent.   
  
"No," he admitted.   
  
In a blur of brown and wicked grinning, Tatsumi turned his back to start up the stairs once more.   
  
"Check the supply closet," he called over his shoulder.   
  
A sound very like laughter trailed after him well after his shadow had disappeared into the cool darkness of the building.


	20. Behind Blue Eyes

_"And if I swallow anything evil,  
Put your finger down my throat;  
If I shiver, please give me a blanket--  
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat."  
--The Who, "Behind Blue Eyes"_   
  
On the one day when rain would have been most appropriate, the sky yielded nothing, staying as maddeningly clear blue as ever. He'd received orders from one of their superiors that morning--something about a new procedure for field expenses--and he'd known it would be trouble. The sinking, sick feeling registered at the back of his brain as something tinged with the deep blues and blacks of dangerous frost; when he brought up the subject in the afternoon meeting, it solidified into a hard and bitter taste in his throat.   
  
Absurdly, he'd found himself thinking of one of Yutaka's bad jokes in the moment before he launched into the explanation he'd prepared.   
  
_So an optimist and a pessimist are talking, right? The pessimist says, "Bah, things can't get any worse." And the optimist says, "Oh yes they can!"_   
  
Terazuma and Tsuzuki both (for once--it was one of perhaps three times he'd ever seen them in agreement) got upset, and angry, and there was a lot of shouting; of course when Tsuzuki was unhappy, Kurosaki glared daggers at anyone he felt might be responsible, and the rest of the meeting degenerated into a mess of yelling which only stopped when Konoe finally shooed everyone back to work.   
  
Tatsumi knew, with an awful black certainty, that it would be days before his co-workers either realised that they were shooting the messenger or simply let their grudges slide. And, truthfully, he'd taken far worse falls before; he was almost certain that there were a few people in Sapporo who'd been wanting to rip him to shreds since the eighties. He didn't mind it when his co-workers inevitably got upset over procedures he'd had no hand in creating--it was, after all, his job.   
  
He just wished that he could shrug off the vaguely hollow feeling that came afterwards.   
  
Sitting in his office was fine, was even pleasant, when it was his choice to do so and when he had something to be typed up or filed. It was a safe haven when he could choose it over, say, the break room or the lab.   
  
When being anywhere else meant that his presence would attract icy looks or the occasional snide comment, his office was just a small room with four walls and a window.   
  
A quick rattle startled him out of his thoughts--he'd left the door unlocked, and it swung open; the light in the corridor outside struck something brilliant, a dazzle of blond hair. The concept of knocking first, apparently, might take another thirty years to register.   
  
"Hey," Watari said. "I just got done clearing up a whole bunch of bugs in the new search engine, thought you'd want to know about it. Turns out we might not have to re-enter all the data by hand if I can get the minidisc drive on my laptop to work for more than two minutes..."   
  
"Thank you. I appreciate it."   
  
What happened next was something he didn't understand at all: he had always been extremely talented when it came to hiding his feelings, burying his weariness or weakness or anything secret beneath careful empty words. He prided himself, in a sort of chilled and solitary way, on being totally unreadable.   
  
Watari cocked his head to one side and fixed him with a concerned frown. "Hey. You okay?"   
  
It wasn't a question anyone asked him often. It wasn't even one he really considered most of the time. His feelings only ever seemed clear for interpretation long after they had faded into washed-out memories; he had rarely ever found himself thinking that the day he was living out was a good or bad one.   
  
But Watari asked, because he wanted to know.   
  
Realisation broke across him like a sudden high tide, all exhaustion and cold and twinges of resentful loneliness.   
  
"No."   
  
There was silence, and then the door clicked shut and Watari was sitting on the desk next to him, one hand curled tentatively around his shoulder. He leaned into the touch gratefully, like a plant stretching to the sun; his cheek came to rest against the hollow of Watari's shoulder, and he breathed in the familiar smell of chemicals and water and body heat. There was a heartbeat steady and quiet beneath his ear, and yellow hair cast a fine mist over the room where it spilled across his field of vision.   
  
"You wanna tell me about it?"   
  
Tatsumi closed his eyes. Despite the fact that they had known each other for years, had shared a bed and explored countless small touches, this felt new. It seemed as if the rusted latch on a window inside him had at last crumbled and fallen away, and all he had to do to see the sky was to pull down the rotting curtains that blocked his view.   
  
"I think I'm not having a very good day."   
  
Watari stroked his hair, the rhythm slow and soothing, and listened. 


	21. And So It Goes

_"But if my silence made you leave, then that would be my worst mistake--  
So I will share this room with you, and you can have this heart to break."  
--Billy Joel, "And So It Goes"_   
  
It was not summer, and it was not fall or spring; whatever season ruled around them was a fierce blaze of blue sky and pink cherry blossoms. The weather was beautiful, at last displaying the steady, clear vibrancy that a Heaven should have: no heat waves, no cold spikes, no sudden rainstorms.   
  
Only in the afterworld, he thought, could a Monday be this lovely.   
  
He had pushed the windows open, and carefully piled the papers on his desk aside, and they had ended up having an absurd, impromptu little picnic of leftover pork buns and slightly singed omelets. (And, really, the omelets weren't quite so bad once you got around the burned bits--there was something to be said for giving a scientist access to one's kitchen.) Birds were calling quietly to one another outside, and somewhere down the hall someone was cursing loudly at the copier.   
  
It was a wonderful thing not to care.   
  
They talked, and this conversation--like so many of their others--was meandering, full of bad puns and teasing innuendo and non sequiturs. Like their other talks, it eventually sloped away into comfortable silence, into the solid wordless message of Watari's fingertips wandering across the back of his hand.   
  
"Yutaka?"   
  
The sound spilled out of him like a jacket slithering off the back of a chair. Watari glanced up, his gaze alert, full of gold and lightning.   
  
"What's up?"   
  
He meant to say _Let's go out to dinner tonight. My treat._ He meant to say _Thank you for listening to me make an utter ass of myself yesterday._ He had a thousand different things to communicate, all bottled up at the back of his throat.   
  
What came out was distinctly different.   
  
"I love you."   
  
For a moment his entire body went numb. That poisonous little word _love_ had been leaving its outlines in his dreams for weeks, had been easing its way up his spine little by little until it leaked into his marrow, his nerves, sinking in quietly and without great fanfare. There had been no fireworks, just the strange sweetness of quiet moments--something he was certain, when he felt it, that didn't belong solely to him.   
  
He hadn't planned to put a word to it, hadn't bargained at all on giving it a voice. Whenever he'd heard it spoken aloud, it demanded a response--as a feeling it was simply fact, and existed in a haze of pain or joy or longing, but when it was spoken it was an ultimatum. _This is how I feel. Take it or leave it._   
  
He felt as though he had slit himself open, thrown off the swift healing of immortality and made himself a fragile human once more, entirely at someone else's mercy. He felt the strange lurch of a familiar sensation: the knowledge that all that was holding him back from a roar of darkness and fire was a white-knuckle grip on his collar, choking him, keeping him suspended.   
  
Watari's hand pressed a little more firmly over his.   
  
"I love you too."   
  
The entire moment was ridiculous--hell, their entire relationship up to this point had been ridiculous; did rational adults really sneak into broom closets, or kiss on the steps of office buildings, or use search engines as an excuse to flirt?--but it was ridiculously, absurdly intense, full of a dizzy and fierce brilliance. It lingered for a heartbeat, and then it was quiet again, just another part of existence, not overwhelming and not overshadowed.   
  
Watari smiled. Tatsumi felt his mouth quirk and knew he was smiling back.   
  
This was probably going to make everything a great deal more complicated, and he wasn't sure he gave a damn.   
  
"Well," Watari said brightly. "Glad that's over with. Things could have gotten really awkward!"   
  
The laughter came pouring out of them both like a sudden storm of petals torn from trees; Tatsumi was leaning on Watari's shoulder, and he knew without a doubt that this had to be love because nothing else was quite so ridiculous. Watari cuffed his ear affectionately, knocking his glasses askew, and that only made him laugh harder. He reached over in retaliation, hooking an arm around Watari's neck to get him in a headlock, and then Watari's hands were sliding inside his jacket and someone's glasses were clattering against the desk and they were kissing, long and slow and wonderfully familiar...   
  
It was several moments before he realised that the strange coughing noises that sounded so distantly at the edge of his hearing were neither his imagination nor a sputtering air conditioner.   
  
He pulled away and everything was a haze of fuzzy browns and blues--_damn,_ he thought, _I wish I didn't hate contact lenses so much--_and after a moment of groping around on the desk he'd managed to find the frames, lift them to his face and make the world come back into focus.   
  
Tsuzuki and Kurosaki were standing on the threshold of his office, staring at him open-mouthed.   
  
Eventually, he'd long since realised, the office would have to know that they were seeing each other--no secret was sealed forever, particularly not when it involved two people. Tatsumi had reconciled himself a month or two before to the idea that Tsuzuki would know about them someday, and that it would be all right, because whatever had once existed between them had evolved into a long goodbye. If he--or anyone in the office, for that matter--knew he was happy, then so be it.   
  
Having it happen so suddenly, however, and having it happen by way of his co-workers witnessing something intimate, was another matter entirely.   
  
_Damn,_ he thought, and realised rather distantly that his ears were burning.   
  
"Hey, guys," Watari said brightly, and in that moment Tatsumi was sure he'd never wanted quite so badly to throttle him.   
  
The look on Tsuzuki's face was at once horrifying and hilarious: it had the distinct quality of betraying the fact that he'd just absorbed too much information, much like a teenager who had just walked in on his parents having sex. Kurosaki, on the other hand, merely looked disgusted, and little prickles of projected emotion rolled off of him, stinging like nettles or high grass.   
  
"Get a room," he said pointedly, and then added, "_At home."_   
  
Tsuzuki made a small choked noise, and mumbled something that didn't sound like a real word at all. Spots of red were beginning to creep across his cheeks, and he looked as if he were about to try to speak again, but then Kurosaki was grabbing his arm and dragging him out, and the door slammed shut so hard that the entire doorframe rattled perilously.   
  
Somewhere outside, a bird trilled, the cheerful sound echoing off of the Bureau's walls. Tatsumi had no idea how he restrained himself from hurling a stapler at the window.   
  
"Well," Watari said, after a long stretch of silence. "That was interesting."   
  
"That's really not the word I'd use."   
  
"Hey, look on the bright side. It's only Monday. Things can still get a lot worse--"   
  
"Yutaka, stop talking."   
  
He felt a slim hand knock at his ear again, and for a single moment he conceded that perhaps it wasn't as bad as he might have imagined.   
  
After the concession, however, came resignation to the fact that dealing with the rumour mill for the rest of the day would probably be far more trouble than it was worth, and he let Watari persuade him to go home at two o'clock.


End file.
